Chapter Thirty-Five
Thirty-five
Charles called Rita Fiore on the limo’s Bluetooth, and she said she’d meet with Melanie Joan and him at four p.m., which was approximately our arrival time back in Boston.
“I can’t go to a lawyer’s office dressed like this,” Melanie Joan said, sounding like herself for the first time in ages. It gave me the tiniest shred of hope.
“How about we make it four-fifteen, and I come up to your room at the Ritz-Carlton?” Rita said. “You can freshen up a little, but you don’t have to force yourself into heels.”
“Sounds perfect,” Melanie Joan said, before mouthing to me, I like her.
I smiled and gave her the thumbs-up.
“Hey, is Sunny Randall in there with you?”
“Hi, Rita,” I said.
“Listen, I’m representing an associate of your once and future father-in-law,” she said. “His name is Connor McMurtry. Nice guy. I mean, for a so-called hit man. You know him?”
“I think so,” I said. Truth was, I found most of Desmond’s associates to be sort of interchangeable—a recent exception being Swinging Dick.
“Small world, right?” she said.
“Especially when it concerns Desmond Burke.”
“Yeah, it is,” she said. “Anyway, Connor told me about your and Richie’s re-engagement. Congrats.”
“It’s a pre-re-engagement, but thanks,” I said.
She chuckled. “And here I thought attorneys were the biggest sticklers for language.”
“Sunny’s only a stickler for language when it comes to her commitment status,” Melanie Joan said.
“Hey, who asked you?” I said.
The three of us laughed. Charles laughed, too. For a moment, “things going back to normal” felt like a very real possibility. You could say whatever you wanted to say about her courtroom theatrics, but a major part of Rita’s skill set was putting anxiety-ridden clients at ease.
Rita told Melanie Joan and Charles she’d see them soon.
“Any instructions we should follow?” Melanie Joan said.
“Be honest with me,” Rita said. “Don’t leave anything out.”
“Okay,” Melanie Joan said.
“Also, please don’t talk to anyone else about the case. Stay in your hotel room as much as possible.”
“Okay.”
“And for the love of God, do not go on TV anymore.”
Melanie Joan cringed. “Got it.”
“All righty, then, see you both soon,” Rita said. “Give my best to Richie, Sunny.”
“Sure thing.” I nearly told her to say hi to Jesse for me, but sadly I still wasn’t quite that evolved.
Once we ended the call, Melanie Joan sat back in the leather seat. She stretched out her legs and gazed up at the dome light. For the first time since this morning, she seemed semi-relaxed. Or maybe she was just exhausted.
We drove for a long time in silence. At one point, Melanie Joan asked Charles to turn on the radio, and he said no. “I don’t want to risk whatever’s on the news,” he said.
Melanie Joan just nodded, her face serious and deathly pale. Where was Rita Fiore’s chipper voice when you needed it? I thought, Jesse’s lucky to have her around, and surprised myself yet again.
When we arrived at my office, it was about a quarter to four. Charles pulled up in front of the building. “I hope the rest of your day goes smooth and easy,” he said.
“I doubt it will, but thanks.”
I said goodbye to them both.
I was about to get out of the car when Melanie Joan stopped me. “Sunny?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think I killed Leila Donnelly?”
I looked her right in the eye and told the truth. “Absolutely not.”
“Thank you,” she said.
—
I got out of the car. The whole way up to my office, I kept thinking about Melanie Joan’s eyes, how shattered they looked.
When I walked in, Blake greeted me. “Saw the news, and…What the fuck?” he said.
“That seems to be the question of the day.”
“How were the Connecticut police? Did they seem understanding?”
“Um. No.”
“That sucks,” he said. “Anyway, there’s a guy here to see you.”
He didn’t say this until I was opening my office door. This was Blake’s sole problem, as far as I could see—his habit of delaying important information until it was too late.
“What’s his name?” In order to drive home this teaching moment, I said it with my door wide open, when I was staring into the rheumy eyes of my visitor.
“Evan Woodrow,” Blake said. He was a smart kid, but some things he just didn’t get.